The Dud Avocado (New York Review Books Classics)

by Elaine Dundy

I reflected wearily that it was not easy to be a Woman in these stirring times. I said it then and I say it now: it just isn’t our century.

True then, true in this next century

To my chagrin, I found all my clothes stubbornly resisting this desired neutrality, splitting themselves resolutely up into three categories: Tyrolean Peasant, Bar Girl, and Dreaded Librarian.

Silly woman. No one dreads librarians

I was interested to discover I could be so roused by a floor show. I was beginning to think there must be something wrong with me. I mean I simply don’t know what to do about a Nude Show. I just can’t seem to behave naturally in front of them. The thing is, I don’t get much of a charge out of them in the first place, so any act I put on is bound to be a phony. But I still haven’t discovered what you’re supposed to do. I mean if you stare straight ahead with a bright smile pasted across your face you’re being a prig, and if you look at it critically and say “They’re really not so hot are they?” you’re being jealous, and if you fling yourself into it and say “Oh, golly, doesn’t she have a lovely body” someone looks at you very peculiarly and says “Hmm. You like her do you? That’s very interesting,” and if you just relax and look bored, you’ve committed the greatest crime of all; like looking bored at a bullfight, I imagine. So it was wonderful not to have to worry about whether I was acting sufficiently moved by the flamenco. I was sufficiently moved all right; stirred to the depths of my erotic soul.

Good writing